


If You're Gonna Get Your Heart Broke

by edenbound



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a dark and stormy night and Dean showed up on Sam's doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Gonna Get Your Heart Broke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feywood (LJ)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=feywood+%28LJ%29).



"This is a horrible cliché, you know that?"

"Dean?"

Dean rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair and shaking water off his face like a dog, not very successfully. "Yes. In case you need proof, you wet yourself the first time Dad took you on a hunt and then claimed you'd sat down in a puddle to try and hide it."

"I did not," Sam says, automatically, and huffs. "I just -- Dean, what are you doing here?"

"Getting very, very wet. I thought it was supposed to be nice all the time out in California. Are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to trek back out of town and find Dad again?"

"Dad's here?"

"We've been tracking something and it led us by here. Dad won't come and say hello, hell no, but I thought maybe you wouldn't mind if I did. Are you going to let me in or not, Sam? I'm gettin' hypothermia out here!"

Sam shakes his head and steps back, still off-balance. "Yeah... sorry. Come on in. It's just me tonight, anyway, the other guys are out. Oh, come on, stop being a baby, you've been wetter than this before."

"That was on a hunt, not on a visit to see my baby brother. And monsters don't generally keep you standing out in the rain when they could let you chase them somewhere small and dark." Dean huffs softly, ineffectually trying to wring water out of his shirt. He seems to be trying not to look at Sam, even though he came all this way to see him. Sam bites his lip.

"Yeah, I guess. C'mon, you can borrow some of my clothes..."

"They'll probably be too big on me, Sasquatch," Dean says, but he follows Sam inside, looks around a little. "Nice place you've got, Sammy."

"Don't call me that. Nobody calls me that anymore." Sam goes to his bedroom, rifling through his wardrobe, and tries not to be annoyed at the trail of drips Dean is making on the carpet. At least it's only water, and not mud, which it probably would've been if Dean had been on a hunt. "Any particular reason you wanted to see me?"

Dean shrugs. He isn't moving to take his clothes off, so Sam dumps the armful of dry clothes on the bed and grabs him, shoving his jacket off.

"Come on, moron, or you _will_ catch hypothermia. You want a shower?"

It feels like role reversal, him acting like a goddamn mother hen, but then he looks up at Dean's face while he's tugging his shirt up, meets his eyes, and _oh_. He forgets just about everything else, just stares, seeing Dean all over again. The bright, guarded eyes, the strong lines of his face, the shadow of stubble on it. The way his lips are slightly parted, expectant, the confusion in his eyes. Sam's brain dials him back to before he left and he's leaning down -- further down, now, when did Dean get so much smaller? -- and kissing Dean. And Dean responds like it's back then, too, mouth opening, eyes closing. Sam bites at Dean's lip, licks into his mouth, pulling reactions from Dean, responses -- a nip of teeth, the lips under his curving into a smile, a tiny noise made in the back of Dean's throat.

"Dean -- "

"Don't talk, stupid," Dean says, his voice roughened already, his hands cool on Sam's skin as he shoves up his shirt. "That always gets us in trouble."

So Sam doesn't talk. He tugs at Dean's clothes, leaves them in a heap, pulls Dean to the bed. The little pile of dry clothes tumbles off unnoticed: Sam's in too much of a hurry to get Dean on his bed, under him. Dean's skin is colder than it should be and he's shivering a little, so Sam covers him with his body, presses close, rubs his hands over his arms to try and warm him up, and he's kissing him all the while. Dean's arm is bandaged, the bandages stiff with old blood, but Dean just shakes his head when Sam notices and pulls him in close again, pushes up against him.

It's like they were never apart.

They find their old rhythm easy enough, even if there's new desperation in it. Dean gets Sam's clothes off easily, kisses the skin revealed, kisses Sam's mouth and touches him, hands on his back, pushing up against him. Sam teases Dean, pinches his nipples and marks his neck, teeth and suction, making him gasp. At some point Dean rolls them over, pins Sam down, kissing him again and again, fervent deep kisses that make Sam's head spin, that somehow steal all the air from his lungs. He finds himself clutching at Dean's arms, leaving little indents there with his nails.

"Sammy -- " Dean says, breathless, wanting, and Sam doesn't correct him, just kisses him harder, almost wanting to hear it again. They only really stop when Sam has to try and find lube, and that doesn't take too long, and they fall right back into it again. Desperate kisses and desperate hands, Dean's skin warming under Sam's touch.

Sam ends up on top again, Dean squirming under him, and when he pushes into Dean and Dean's back arches just like that, it's like the world has stopped and it's only them, and that's okay. Dean clutches at him, pants into his mouth, against his ear, and Sam just moves because he can't not, thrusting deep into Dean and feeling like he's losing himself more with each thrust. Dean's soft moans are the same as always -- his soft cry when Sam thrusts hard and just right is perfect, just like always, and Sam's eyes blur and sting -- sweat, he tells himself, not tears.

When Dean comes, though, he's quiet. His fingers dig into the small of Sam's back, his back arches and he pushes up and tightens all around Sam, and he just moans -- just one little moan, his mouth next to Sam's ear, Sam's name. Sam feels like he'll die if he stops, like he'll die if he doesn't, so he just presses closer and kisses Dean again and again and lets go, lets himself come.

They just lie together quietly, after that. Sam doesn't feel like talking, which is crazy by his normal standards, but makes sense right now. Dean's right: talking always gets them into trouble. He just lies in Dean's arms, head pillowed against his shoulder, until that gets uncomfortable.

"Get up," he murmurs, and Dean makes a complaining little noise, but he does, finds something to clean them both up with. He looks pleased, sated, sleepy. His hair is mostly dry already, curling a little on his forehead in its dampness, and he looks slightly ridiculous and mostly endearing. Sam hits the lights and curls up in bed with him again, holds him close, listening to his breathing slow and steady even more. He thinks Dean might even be most of the way asleep already, and wonders how hard Dad is driving him lately.

"You're always welcome, Dean," Sam whispers, into the warm dark, his lips brushing Dean's forehead as he speaks. "Always. Just let yourself in, next time."

He doesn't expect Dean to even register the words, let alone remember them and take them at face value two years later.


End file.
